


An Unexpected Sketch

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Hewlett being an awkward dork, Romance, dares, otp prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the OTP prompt: "Person A dares Person B to kiss them as a joke, but is then taken by surprise when Person B does just that." (Adapted slightly for the time period)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Sketch

This was as far from a civilized evening out as he could imagine.

 

Sequestered in the back of the Strong’s tavern, nursing what was perhaps the foulest ale he’d ever tasted, Major Hewlett did his utmost not to let his disgust show. Still, it was a near thing: Rochester singing some bawdy song, Meyers dealing out his seventh hand of cards (despite having already lost his purse, hat, and two-thirds of his livestock), there was a farmer whose name Hewlett didn’t care to know who appeared to be vomiting into his boot. A common occurrence amongst this populace it seemed.

 

The stench of unwashed bodies. The creaking of an unstable chair beneath his legs. Hewlett could currently think of no other place he’d enjoy less than this tavern. He’d only come because of Richard.

 

“‘Community,’ Hewlett muttered into his ale. He took a swallow and grimaced. “They shall respect you more if they get to know you.’ Ha! Says the man who left early for the comfort of his bedchamber.”

 

The night wasn’t a complete loss. Hewlett had learned much about his men and his neighbors in the recent hours. The soup he’d ordered was serviceable, and the bread beside it uncommonly fresh. Nearly fresh from the oven. So yes, the night was not entirely worthy or criticism...

 

Hewlett looked up just in time to catch a wave of dark hair.

 

Truth be told, the view was even better than the food.

 

Anna Strong. The darling of Setauket, and in the last few months Hewlett had begun to see why. It was astounding. Childhood ties to traitors, her own husband a scoundrel... she should have been the town’s pariah. There were admittedly those who turned their noses to the heavens (Hewlett was not oblivious to the fairer sex’s primary form of entertainment: gossip) and there were even those who cast suspicion upon her person— more out of a lack of action than anything else. Yet, despite it all, Mrs. Strong remained a well-loved member of Richard’s community. By god, even the man himself paid her the proper courtesies, and Hewlett knew he had reason more than most to cast judgment.

 

“‘Fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’” Hewlett quoted. He breathed the words, watching her from across the crowd.

 

No wonder Mrs. Strong was still beloved. Beautiful—yes—but also as resourceful as she was sociable.

 

For two hours he’d watched her flit from place to place, juggling mugs and plates as well as the beat of music. Mrs. Strong was in fine spirits tonight, flouncing before one table in order to give the men a laugh, turning delicately before laying cups before another—she ‘danced’ as she worked, keeping time with Mr. Styler’s atrocious violin, maintaining a respectability even as she let festivities reign. An excellent talent too, considering that she was the only woman present.

 

Another detail to be thankful for this night. Mrs. Strong’s singularity allowed Hewlett to stare.

 

His own admission made him blush—in expectation, shame—and he ducked he face once more into the foul ale. At his side Hewlett’s fingers jittered against his knee, desperate even more for a quill than a touch. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to capture the image, of Mrs. Strong turning with such confidence and grace. His journal was tucked beneath his own pillow, a fresh pot of ink inches away on the nightstand, both just a walk away and easily obtainable…

 

But no, too great a risk. Staring was excusable. Sketching a woman married and newly betrayed?

 

“Foolish,” Hewlett muttered. “Preposterous.”

 

“What is?”

 

Hewlett whirled, knocking the ale, startling when a wet and pungent patch spread across his leg. When had she approached him? How had he lost her? Hewlett dimly heard an exclamation and then Mrs. Strong’s hands were pressed against his thigh; strong fingers interlaced with cloth kneading the muscle there.

 

They were even warmer than the ale. She pressed harder and Hewlett jumped.

 

“—so sorry, Major, I didn’t mean to startle you—”

 

“You didn’t,” Hewlett said and then immediately coughed at his own words. “Ah, that is... perhaps just a bit... Mrs. Strong, please. _Please_.”

 

She was still touching him, the accident giving her a permission and Hewlett a treasure that neither would have dared to ask for. Still, there were people. Subordinates, yes, but here and there—everywhere—jostling them both as they passed in drunken revelry, too close, likely to see at any moment, even through their haze of spirits. Not that there was anything to _see_ , Hewlett firmly reminded himself as he took up her hands. Mrs. Strong’s fingers were calloused, damp now, and no doubt aching from the day’s work. Hewlett had a strong desire to press them tenderly... and deliberately handed Mrs. Strong back her cloth instead.

 

“It’s no matter,” he said, trying valiantly to regain a steady tone. “I do believe these trousers are due for a washing, regardless.”

 

“I can add them to Captain Simcoe’s laundry if you’d like.”

 

The words were spoken without thought, Mrs. Strong engaged with wringing out her rag in a nearby bucket. Hewlett saw the exact moment her words registered, in a stilling of her frame... except for the one spasm along her throat as she swallowed harshly.

 

“Perhaps not,” Hewlett said, attempting to sound kind. To his great relief, Mrs. Strong relaxed. She went back to her work.

 

“Of course. I’m happy to wash them another time—”

 

“My own servant is more than capable—”

 

They stopped. Paused.

 

“I didn’t meant to imply—”

 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer—”

 

They stopped again, this time with small smiles tugging at their lips. Mrs. Strong looked up from her position, a full grin spreading across her features in a wave, sending Hewlett reeling against the back of his chair, though of course there was nowhere to go. He wished forcefully to capture this moment too: Mrs. Strong, kneeling by his feet, water dripping from her hands and sweat from her brow. Small tendrils of hair had begun to sneak from her bonnet and he could see the day’s labors laid out in a streak of grime across the collar of her dress. Still, she was beautiful. Moreso than even the stars above their heads, the very ones Hewlett had spent his life chasing. Fool he was to have named them God’s greatest creation. Fool beyond believe to think he’d lost his stars after his appointment to His Majesty’s service.

 

In truth, the brightest star had been waiting for him. Tucked away in unsuspecting Setauket.

 

“Major?”

 

Hewlett jerked as Mrs. Strong’s smile grew. “You’re staring.”

 

“M-my profoundest apologies.” He gave a small bow, still seated in his chair. Gently, Hewlett offered his hand and helped Mrs. Strong to her feet. “Simply a long day, I assure you.”

 

“Not one for late night revelry?”

 

Hewlett could feel his cheeks heat. Already a pale man, appearing even sickly at times, the candlelight did nothing to help nor hide his complexion. Hewlett knew that even the faintest blush spread as red as August’s tomatoes along his skin, as it did so now. However did she make that sound so... _vulgar_.

 

Not that it was intended in such a way. Certainly not. It was Hewlett’s own, sinful mind playing tricks on him, for when he looked again Mrs. Strong’s face was the very picture of innocence.

 

“Not as much,” he managed. Hewlett’s eyes scanned the crowd, finding comfort in the familiar upheaval around him. Still his mouth puckered unpleasantly. “I have nothing against a man or woman’s celebration. Please don’t think that of me. But we are at war. Rebels may be on our doorstep tomorrow morning, this very night in fact!” His hand came down hard on the table, then moved contemplatively to his chin. “We cannot say with certainty that forcing them from our town once will ensure that they do not attack again. Intelligence is faulty and their desire to see us dead? _Ruthless_. One must always be prepared, with a clear mind and a steadfast heart. This,” Hewlett gestured to the company before them, all of which was drunk. “Well. It does not inspire confidence in an adequate defense.”

 

Hewlett looked and found Mrs. Strong still smiling. At what, he couldn’t know. Until she said:

 

“Our town.”

 

“... I beg your pardon?”

 

“You just referred to Setauket as _our_ town,” Mrs. Strong said. She moved even closer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were becoming quite fond of our humble home, Major.”

 

Hewlett stared. “… It does seem that you quite often know better,” he murmured. It made her laugh.

 

“As for the rest, I also believe that you worry is unfounded. I should know.” Mrs. Strong lifted her tankard from which she’d been topping off the drinks. “Your men have been drinking a rather watered down version of my usual fair tonight.”

 

“Is that why the taste is so horrid?” and Hewlett’s eyes widened, his intellect catching up with his mouth’s thoughtless question. To his immense relief though, Mrs. Strong only laughed again.  

 

“I’ll find something more pleasant to the palate then. Just for you.”

 

Mrs. Strong streched across the table to retrieve his mug, leaning easily on Hewlett’s shoulder as she did so. It was a remarkably innocent touch in comparison to the one that had come before it, but it was also the one more easily seen. Hewlett would swear later that he could feel the jeers well before he heard them.

 

“Well done, Major!” came a voice ringing above the others. Hewlett recognized it as John Robeson’s. “Looks as if there is soon to be an Oyster Queen for our Oyster Major!”

 

Hewlett felt his cheeks heating again, this time in anger. He stood—stomach plummeting at Mrs. Strong’s expression—and fumbled for a retort.

 

“Too true, too true!” called another. It was another native. Mrs. Strong was right, Hewlett’s men were clear headed enough to merely laugh, or at the most gaze uncomfortably between their leader and one of the few respectable women available to them. They kept their silence. Those of Setauket though were deep into their cups, and their manner reflected that clearly.

 

“ _This_ ,” Hewlett started, only to be cut off again.

 

“What a pair they make!” cried a voice. “Ale for the Major! Wine for the lady! A toast!”

 

Suddenly there were indeed mugs shoved into their hands, the crowd converging on them both. Instead of lifting their drinks in a true toast however, the men began banging them on the tables, keeping an impressively steady beat given their state. Before Hewlett could even begin to diffuse the situation they were chanting, a drunkard’s dare that he hadn’t heard since his school days:

_Will ye, will ye_

_Kiss me, kiss me!_

_Bend back, bundle, spread, and till me—_

“That’s quite enough!” Hewlett shouted, appalled.

 

The ruckus didn’t die down though. If anything it grew stronger, the mob (for it indeed felt like such now) encroaching into their space, until Hewlett was nigh pressed against Mrs. Strong in a manner most improper. The cheering grew louder, the beat speeding up in an effort to force them into contact, and it came to the point where Hewlett could quite literally no longer avoid her gaze. Looking up, he was startled to find Mrs. Strong still smiling.

 

“Will ye?” she asked, quietly, hardly speaking it at all.

 

So Hewlett leaned forward—there was nowhere else to go—dazed, embolden, and presented her with as chaste a kiss as their company would allow. Luckily for the audience, Hewlett had half closed his eyes while nearing the destination, resulting in him kissing more of Mrs. Strong’s mouth than her cheek. The resulting realization made him stumble, he found purchase on her hips, and all in all it was as far from proper as one could imagine. Hewlett pulled back as if burned, his face a testament to his misconduct. He issued a shaking, “Pardon me” and stumbled from the prison.

 

The crowd let him go, roaring obscenely. Hewlett felt numerous hands pounding his back.

 

There, out in the cold air he could breathe again. Hewlett allowed his posture to deteriorate, hands at his knees, until he felt another touch along his back, lighter than all the rest.

 

It still burned though.

 

“Quick, before they call for more,” Mrs. Strong said, her voice light with adrenaline and laughter. “You needn’t worry, come the morning the town will remember nothing of this. As for your men... I think it will do them good, seeing this softer side of you. Quite soft.” She hardly needed to reach, low as he was. Mrs. Strong simply ducked, merging them into one shadow amongst the darkness, and planted the lightest of pecks along his cheek. She had better aim than he.

 

“Thank you for the kiss,” she whispered and scurried back to the tavern.

 

Hewlett stayed there another moment, poised on the doorstep, his breathing soft and his gaze turned towards the stars.

 

“Fairer than even you,” he told them and set off for home.

 

The night was balmy, a light breeze coming in from the water. Hewlett walked slowly, savoring the night and periodically stopping to speak to the stars once more. By the time he reached Whitehall, Hewlett was strangely calm. An unexpected smile lit up his features.

 

“Good night, sir?” His servant dared ask, looking positively shocked as he swept the door closed. “Enjoy yourself?”

 

“... Yes.” Hewlett answered. He turned towards the direction of his bed... and his sketchbook.

 

“Do remind me to thank Richard in the morning.”


End file.
